Seasons- A Hunger Games fanfic
by bleakstallion
Summary: Post-Mockingjay through epilogue. Katniss and Peeta grow back together, remembering their love and trust for each other. Trying to cope with a moderately normal life, Katniss comes across many difficult decisions and discoveries, both in life, and in love. DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters they all belong to Suzanne Collins
1. Dreams

**Autumn**

I open my eyes, maybe the first in a long time. The sky is on fire. Orange and red, and purple, and grey, and blue- an infinite number of colour combinations stirred together into a floating conflagration.

The silhouetted trees arch protectively over me, a barrier between me and the flaming sky: I am safe.

Silence hangs like swirling wreaths of fog in the early hours of dawn. Fog. My muscles tense, I feel a throbbing stab of pain in my chest. I cannot breathe, I gasp hopelessly for air. My lungs audibly heave, drawing in the quickly decreasing amount of oxygen. I can't stay here, I have to move. I sink my claws deep into the underlying earth, hauling myself off the ground. Grasping at the foliage around me I manage to drag my body onto my feet, and I take my first few steps.

I hit the forest floor. "NO!" I scream, crawling desperately through the soil. Then it hits me. "AGH!" My moans get louder; the mist slowly brushes my skin, sending my body into a simmering broth of agony.

It burns my skin. "Peeta?!" I cry, drowsily. Fitting wasn't something I expected, but I begin to feel the unpredictable twitches taking over my body-limbs flailing as if they are no longer attached to my torso. The heat makes me sweat, and I can feel it running down my spine, torturing me.

"PEETA!" I prop myself up against a tree, its rough bark tearing at the thin fabric on my back, and I squint to see a figure with a mop of blonde curls running towards me in the distance.

"Peeta! Help-" I feel myself slipping out of consciousness, sliding slowly to the ground. "Peeta?"

Suddenly I'm surrounded by water. Salty liquid surges into my mouth, the cold sending sharp pain up my neck. I'm being hurled around a huge plug-hole of seawater, my body swept by the strong currents.

I reach my hands to grab onto something, anything, but all my hands clasp round is water. Letting out a silent groan, I'm finally thrust heavily against a frontier of boulders.

Air. All I can think about is the air I'm breathing. In, out, in, out. I'm breathing. Slowly moving my aching arms I pull myself onto the large boulder behind me. Then I see him, his blue eyes emerging from the trench of rocks.

My sounds are fuzzy, I faintly hear him mumble a few words. But then the mumbles grow, his frustration ever increasing as I fail to respond. His pupils are piercing, misty and animal like. Primal paws clasp round my throat, and I hear the shouts get louder and louder.

My newly returned air supply is disappearing, and I feel myself slip hopelessly down a firm concrete wall. However, I'm abruptly jerked, forcing my eyes open, forcing me to stare helplessly into his eyes. Those warm comforting eyes, those eyes that could tell a thousand stories in one quick glance, those eyes that forced me into submission, those lovely blue eyes are gone. No more.

"Peeta?" I pant, "Where are you?"

"Sssh, Katniss. It's okay, it's me. Ssssh." I snap up, my pupils quickly adjust to the light, focusing on the objects around me. "Katniss, it was a dream. Just, calm. I'm here." I slow my breathing, taking huge breaths, relaxing my muscles. Breathing, check. Pills. I reach my trembling arm over to the side table and fumble around for the little plastic tub; nothing.

"I've got them Katniss, here." Turning my head I start to decipher the large figure in the soft morning light. I see piercing blue eyes willingly staring at me from the darkness. Not being able to disagree, I oblige, taking my pills and a small tumbler of water. I gulp them down quickly.

Slumping back in my bed I feel gentle fingers caressing my hand, a soft voice whispering in my ear. I fall asleep.

My head feels heavy and grotty when I stumble down the stairs; I grasp onto the polished mahogany banister of my victors village house, trying to keep myself upright.

There's a faint crackling from the living room. Normally I would investigate, but listening to my stomach gurgle, I desperately need food.

Greasy Sae hovers in the kitchen, and as I slouch into a chair a plate of toast magically appears on the table. I'm so glad she doesn't trust me to make it myself.

"Never told me the boy's back." I hear her mumble. Surprised she's attempting to communicate with me at this hour of the morning, I grumble "Huh?" She chuckles, grabs a squirrel from the pantry and drags her little granddaughter out the door.

What was that about? I chuck my plate in the sink and shuffle to the living room. There, sat comfortably on the sofa, is Peeta.

I don't know exactly how I'm feeling. He's home, I mean, wasn't it supposed to be 6 weeks from now? I doubt Dr Aurelious would release him so early. Or would he? With Peeta's tongue…

Sh- he's spotted me. I automatically spin on my heels and run out the door, slamming it behind me. I realise the whole not-drawing-attention-to-myself plan is totally out the window.

I just can't think right now. Bare-feet crunch on the newly fallen autumn leaves. Sprinting down the row of victors village houses, I hear his voice vaguely call to me from behind, but I carry on.

Steadily I run further and further away from my house. By-passing the town, a place I haven't seen for over a year. Since my return, I can't bear to think what it looks like, what the bombings did to the place. Even the positive comments about rebuilding from Sae, I can't, it holds too many memories.

I reach the fence. No longer powered, I slip effortlessly under the wires, then continue to tear as fast as possible down the hill. Weaving in-between the grey trees, I reach my spot. I pull myself into my tree, climbing as high as possible. Normally I'd perch in the basket of woven branches lower down, but scratch comfort. Right now I want to be as far away from reality as physically possible. The higher I am off the ground, there's less of a chance of potential human contact.

I close my eyes and lean back on a pillow of green leaves. No rope. No rope to tie me to the tree while I sleep, no rope to practise tying with Finnick. Instead I pull out my braid and fumble my fingers through my hair. Plait, undo. Re-plait, undo. Turns out I didn't need rope.

Concentrating so hard to stay upright in the tree and plaiting my hair, I didn't realise the small clump of blood collecting in my mouth. I try to ignore it, doing all I can to get rid of it, swallowing it. But it stays, that metallic taste stays hooked on my tongue; I begin to feel nauseous.

But maybe I was nauseous already; I've constantly got that revolting flavour circulating my mouth, never to be rid of. Never to be forgotten.

I can't think about Peeta right now, it's too confusing. He makes me feel things no one else can make me feel, and I don't understand. Right now, I decide, I'm indifferent. I have to understand my own feelings before I start on other people.

A few mockingjays flutter their wings and fly gracefully out of the blanket of trees, their feathers shimmering in the early morning light. I picture myself doing the same. I spread out my wings, hovering on the gentle wind below me.

I finally return to victor's village. I stride through the gates and see Peeta on his knees in front of the small patch of bushes in front of my house. My walk turns quickly into a jog. I'm not infuriated, but I'm seriously curious to see what the hell he's doing.

"Peeta?" I shout, but then I see them. The five perfect cream petals, centred around a bright buttery yellow centre. Their pure pale skin peeks out from the dead brown brambles surrounding them. But they stand tall, a little battalion of candles flickering in the mud, fading stars in evening night. I remember.

_"Latest, earliest of the year,_

_Primroses that still were here,_

_Snugly nestling round the boles_

_Of the cut—down chestnut poles,_

_This, too, be your glory great,_

_Primroses, you do not wait,_

_As the other flowers do,_

_For the Spring to smile on you,_

_But with coming are content,_

_Asking no encouragement._

_When the hawthorn, all ablow,_

_Mimics the defeated snow;_

_Then you give one last look round,_

_Stir the sleepers underground_

_Bid the ladysmocks good—bye,_

_Close your bonnie lids and die;_

_And, without one look of blame,_

_Go as gently as you came."_

"Primroses." I choke.


	2. Distance

**Autumn**

A single tear rolls slowly down my cheek. The pale flowers blur in my flooded eyes, and I glance over at Peeta. His face is a mask of pain and loss; the prominent grey circles hang ominously beneath his eyes, his cheeks emaciated and gaunt. I can tell he hasn't shaved recently, and my heart drops to my stomach when I picture him like Haymitch, lost and consumed by his own memories.

Then I lose it. My tears grow into sobs, my breathing turns to loud heaving. I feel him cup his hand around my head and tuck it beneath his chin, "I'm sorry Katniss." He whispers painfully.

"Shave, please." I breathe, taking a step back. This scares me. He wanted to kill me.

"Okay," he chuckles, "I'll shave." And for the first time I watch a smirk tug at his cheeks, pulling him into an honest smile. I haven't seen him smile like that since, well, the first morning of the quarter quell, when he found me a pearl.

He didn't want to kill me. I thought he did, but I was frightened, petrified. How could I think about Peeta's side of the story when he was attempting to strangle me?

So many times people have said he's weak, even I thought about it once or twice. But I was wrong. Peeta was abused. How he managed to stay sane and appear normal to me, the few times I noticed him at school, I don't know.

He was rejected by his family, he survived 2 games, he got hijacked by the capitol and fought in a war. I wish more people understood him, realised and admired the pain he's gone through; we've gone through. I admire him.

"I was afraid you were turning into Haymitch, it scares me." He wipes the tears from my eyes and begins to pick up his tools.

"I'm not surprised. Trust me, I swear to God I will never be an heir to Haymitch's throne." Quietly bending down, he picks me a flower, placing it in the palm of my hand and gently closing my fingers around its damp stem.

"Thank you."

Peeta smiles, I see him plotting a thought inside his creased forehead, "You know," He sniggers, but then his face switches into that of a serious, firm expression. "If you don't treat me like I'm Haymitch, we, we have a shot at, um, being-"

"Friends?"

"Yeah, that."

I sigh. Why after all we've been through we actually have to try to be friends? If he hadn't been hijacked then, well I don't know what it would be like now. Maybe we'd have been more than just friends. No. There's no use being optimistic when I struggle to get through one day at a time, let alone what would, or could happen in years to come.

"Sure, friends. You bake, I hunt. I hope they damaged your hearing in the Capitol you know, you won't sleep otherwise now that you're back."

He frowns, "I don't sleep anyway."

I smile, "Well we'll just stay awake then. We won't sleep, together."

He laughs, "I haven't heard that word in a good 3 years."

My mind flickers back to my first games. Me and Peeta standing face to face in the arena, berries in hand, death only a few seconds away. What if we had swallowed the nightlock?

On a lighter note, I joke, "Thanks to the generosity of the Capitol, we've never been closer."

"25 yards to be exact."


	3. Disjointed

**Winter**

Things continued as planned. Peeta baked, I hunted. Greasy Sae came in less and less, weaning me off her I guess. I was forced to cook for myself - ish. Peeta cooked. We sit in silence most of the time, maybe popping in a question about each other's day, but nothing more.

I thought that when Peeta returned everything would return to normal. I knew the memories would never leave me. The dreams, the nightmares, the hallucinations from the pills Dr Aurelious sends me, and Peeta forces me to take. But I did hope the grief would numb.

I was wrong.

Then it comes, the day I've been waiting for. For months I've sat, anticipating this day, and the anxiety has finally overwhelmed me. The pain has grown in the few days prior, making me feel increasingly unwell, just like the times I'd wait to be taken into the mines on school trips; I've made myself sick again.

I wake up surprisingly late. Well, I can't say I slept through the night, waking up with screams forcing to throttle my airways. The nightmares have been getting worse recently, and the dream that woke me, on the worst day since she died, was the worst yet.

She was running through meadow, skipping, her fine braids bouncing on her shoulders. Laughing happily, she admires the flowers, gathering them carefully. But she isn't in her clothes. The pretty cream frocks replaced with black, waterproof plastic material. She doesn't look right in those clothes, they swamp her.

Then I realise where we are. Not in the meadow. Not in the woods. But in the arena: my first arena.

I call out to her, screaming her name, ordering her to come to me. However, she just laughs, heaves a laugher unnatural to her. Is this my Prim? A peculiar smile spreads across her flushed pink cheeks, and she steps away from me. Further and further away until I find myself sprinting after her, following the sounds of her amusement. Is she mocking me?

Suddenly, without warning, I see a figure approach from behind her. "PRIM!" I holler, running as fast as my legs can carry me towards her. The dark silhouette raises his weapon, what seems to be a spear, and impales the tip straight into her back.

I wail helplessly, falling to me knees in front of my injured sister. But to my surprise, she draws the spear slowly from her back, and aims it directly at me. "See what you did?" Prim shouts, "You said you'd protect me!" She launches the spear at a nearby tree, catching an unexpected bird, striking it hard into the bark.

A few black feathers float to the ground, and I spot the delicate patterns on it's now blood soaked stomach. "How'd you like that, mockingjay?" She quickly pulls out a knife from her pocket and pins me to the ground.

"Prim?" I whisper. The small girl frowns at me, dragging the sharp blade against the left side of my forehead, just like Clove. "Sorry for that," she chuckles, "just didn't want you telling me a load of empty promises." She slams the blunt handle of the knife against my head, causing me to fall into unconsciousness, just like Johanna.

But I return to the world, to my dismay, I wake to find myself being attacked my birds. Their piercing talons dig deep into the layers of my skin; beaks penetrating though the thin plastic covering my body.

I lay hopelessly as I'm literally torn apart by the deranged animals, listening to their shrills echoing through the trees. "Katniss" they screech. "Katniss" they hiss. The memories flood through my head, threatening to send me into the depths of despair, madness even. I give up trying to survive; the mutts hiss in my ear, reminding me of so many who died, who caused me to survive. So many people, in the games, and in the rebellion.

When I finally decide to close my eyes, I hear one last deafening scream of my name, feel a claw stab deep into the cavern of my eye.

I wake as usual, screaming and drenched in sweat. "Katniss."

"GET AWAY FROM ME." I shriek.

"It's me. It's me, Katniss. You're home." I see his eyes staring at me in the light, his hands cupped firmly round my cheeks. He presses his lips to my forehead.

"Get out Peeta."

"What?"

"Get out." My voice drips with fatigue. Peeta fails to sense this, as I see his mournful face crumple in front of me. But as always, he follows my orders, and leaves the room swiftly.

The rest of the day continues in a similar fashion: my body trying to recuperate for my lost sleep, but constantly being cut short by my haunting nightmares.

About mid-day, I hear clattering downstairs. Peeta bakes here most days, I enjoy watching him experimenting new recipes for the bakery when it finally opens. But now is really not the time.

I wake up a few hours later to an empty house. It saddens me, how I sent him away when he could be here with me, comforting me. But he's not here, and all I have are the cheese buns that are left to scent the room to remind me of him.


	4. Dress

**Winter**

The next morning, I'm able to drag myself out from under the bed sheets and make my way downstairs. I see Peeta hovering over the stove in the kitchen, and when he hears me, he turns and gives me a half smile. I know he expects me to make some rash comment or moan, but instead I instinctively wrap my arms around him.

Placing my head between his shoulder blades, I feel his lungs gently rise and fall, heat emanating from his skin.

I have it all planned in my head, my apology, and my proposal for what we do today. However, I fall weak at the knees and burst into tears. He allows me to soak his shirt as I sob hopelessly in his arms.

Eventually, I feel him sit me down in a chair. He crouches in front of me, folds his arms and places them on my knees, and stares sympathetically into my eyes.

"I'm sorry," I stutter, "I had this whole speech and-"

"Shh." He cuts me off, placing his index finger to my lips.

"Peeta." I clear my throat and compose myself. "I can't be a good person and apologise if you smother me with kindness, can I? Give me a chance to do the right thing."

He chuckles and slumps into a chair.

"I'm sorry. I've been so selfish. You had family too. Miche and-"

"Not now, Katniss." I look at Peeta, fingers pressing firmly against his temple. His face is strained, not concentrating, but…

He's having a flashback.

I mean, Dr Aurelious warned me about these, how it's a result of his hijacking and all, but it's weird, seeing it in person. All I can think of is to gently grab his free hand.

"Peeta?" He grabs the edge of the table, his arm muscles bulging at the pure force.

"Go up…stairs and…" frustrated, he sighs, "lock… the… door." He manages to spit the last few words out, with effort.

"Can't… hurt you." Wiping the hot tears from my face I take a deep breath.

"I can't just leave you Peeta. I'm not leaving you." I start to rub his arm, soothing him quietly.

"You're home, Peeta. I'm here, I'm not going to hurt you. Nothing here can hurt you. You're safe." I don't know where the whole speech came from, but it helps. He abruptly lets out a cough, as if he were ridding all the anger from his body, and collapses onto the table.

"Peeta?" I jump up and push the blonde strands from his forehead.

"Tired." He mutters.

I help Peeta hobble into the living room and he flops onto the couch, exhausted. Chucking some kindling into the fireplace, I strike a match and watch the flames rise and crackle.

I crane my neck to see Peeta staring down at me from the couch. This sort of sign of affection doesn't seem to bother me anymore. You could say I've grown out of it, come to welcome it even.

I grab a book from the side table and nestle next to Peeta on the couch. I've grown fond of reading. Before, we didn't have books at home, except for the mandatory books a newly married couple is assigned from the justice building, a few nursing books of my mother's, and a couple of plant books of my father's, including the family plant book. Madge would often tell me how her father would buy her books from the capitol, many by the well-known authors born in the bred in the melodramatic lifestyle of the city. However, when Madge lent me one or two of her novels, I found I quite enjoyed them. I guess the adventure and the noble characters distracted me from the hell that was my life: my mother in depression, my sister starving, and my father in his grave.

The book I'm reading now is one that Dr Aurelious sent me a few months ago, he said it would be a welcome change from the constant misery that was my life after the war, I guess until Peeta turned up.

I can feel him twiddling sections of my hair between his fingers, but the movement slowly dies and I can tell he's fallen asleep. Returning to my book, I try to concentrate on the storyline, pleading Peeta doesn't have any nightmares. He's been shaken up enough today.

Peeta rouses after a long and restful sleep. "I should bake." He manages to say during a yawn.

"No you don't. I didn't hunt today."

"You didn't stay here, did you?" He gives me a long hard look of disapproval.

"What?" I laugh, "Am I not allowed to stay at home? Are you suggesting I am the bread winner? Which is ironic because, well, you're the bread-"

He finishes my sentence by planting a kiss on my lips. I feel the heat surge through his skin, and I allow myself to become tangled in his mouth. Hands find my cheeks and neck, and my chest tightens with anticipation.

I draw back suddenly, unaware of my action. My heart skips a beat when I realise what's just happened, "Why don't we work on the book."

I see Peeta smirk as I swiftly hop off the sofa and grab the book, setting down carefully on the floor in front of the fire. Lowering my gaze, I hear him leave the room and grab his paintbrushes from the kitchen.

What just happened? I sigh, feeling guilty for cutting it off. I don't regret it, I'll admit that, but it feels strange. I've only really had 2 voluntary kissed in my life. The others were purely forced apon me, or I suppose necessary for mine and others' survival. But thinking about it, those kisses were from him. There's links with Peeta I can never erase, and that's not a bad thing. I need to give up this stupid act and allow myself to love again.

"Who are we working on today then?" He asks, plonking down on the rug.

"Don't mind." I confess.

"Katniss?" Groaning, I grab the book and write a title.

"Are you sure?" Peeta gazes at me with accepting eyes.

"Yes," I breathe, "Can you draw him?"

"Sure." He says lightly, trying to keep things positive. I scribble down a rough copy of what I'm going to write, or try at least. It's like when I would attempt writing scripts for the tour, or letters before the quell. Even writing my mother after the rebellion; I just don't have the way of words that Peeta had been so blissfully gifted with.

I turn to watch him paint. The beauty of the brush sweeping gracefully over the page, adding an array of colours to the once blank paper still astounds me to this day.

I see the eyes, face, and hair begin to sprout, blooming into the torso. His face is locked in a half smile, one I remember so dearly. He was the rock in the months I spent captivated by the capitol, my friend I could to. He was someone who, although from a place of arrogance and self-importance, reached out to those around him. I felt like I was in a calming presence when he was around.

When Peeta finishes, we sit back and admire his work. It's real. It must be. I feel as if I can just reach out and touch him, pull him back into the world.

Taking a breath, I whisper "My turn."

Seizing a pen, I begin to create letters with the ink. I've never had a flair for writing, but my words seem to flow effortlessly onto the page. I suppose when I talk about someone I feel, or felt, so lovingly about, there's no stopping me.

I feel as if I've emerged from under water when I finish. Seeing words jump out at me from the page. I can't believe I wrote this. I finally wrote this. My vision begins to blur and I fly out the room, racing up the stairs.

When I reach my room I lose myself in the closet. My fingers brush over the textures of material hung above me. I finger ever seam, hem, and stitch in the cream fabric.

I always channel my emotions into my work, that way I don't hurt anyone but myself.

Cinna.


End file.
